


A Whoopee spot

by Arabwel



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Also featuring assorted 1920s gangsters, Canon-Typical Violence, Coldwave Fic Exchange, Crossdressing, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Except Rip's blood pressure, Gangsters, Gratuitious references, Humor, M/M, Ok so more like in a flapper dress, Prohibition, SNART IN A SKIRT, Speakeasies, and gangsters, and some historical artifacts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 13:55:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11510793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arabwel/pseuds/Arabwel
Summary: New York in the summer of 2016 is muggy and gross; New York in the summer of 1923 is the same and the air conditioning is definitely lacking.“I am not wearing that,” Len says flatly, eyeing the outfit Gideon has produced. “The suit, yes, the underwear, no.”





	A Whoopee spot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prouvairablehulk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prouvairablehulk/gifts).



> For Prouvariablehulk <3 Hope you enjoy this! 
> 
> Huge thank you for robininthelabyrinth for inviting me and holding my hand through my first fic in this fandom!

New York in the summer of 2016 is muggy and gross; New York in the summer of 1923 is the same and the air conditioning is definitely lacking. 

“I am not wearing that,” Len says flatly, eyeing the outfit Gideon has produced. “The suit, yes, the underwear, no.”

“Mr. Snart,a union suit was the most common underwear worn in this time period...”

“Not happening.” Len shook his head. “I ain’t going to be wearing footy pyjamas under my suit.” 

The argument is interrupted when Mick enters the room, already suited up. “What’s taking you so long, Snart?” 

Len gives Mick an appreciative once-over; the cut of the suit emphasized his shoulders even more than usual and the _proper_ fedora adorning his head gave him the air of someone straight out of a hard boiled detective novel which, admittedly, was a new one, seeing as Len had always considered them to be more like Moriarty and Moran ( _Tyger, Tyger, burning bright…_ Christ, Blake had been such a dick. ) 

Gideon butts in before Len can get his tongue back. “Mr. Snart is unwilling to wear a fully period -appropriate outfit. Captain Lance would like me to pass on the message that _If I’ve had to wear a fucking corset, you can wear pajamas Len._ ”

Len shudders. “I’d rather wear the corset.”

Then he notices Mick eyeing him up speculatively, heat in his eyes. 

“Gideon, I’d like you to produce an alternative outfit for me.” 

** 

“Where’s Snart?” Jax asks Mick as he straightens his bowtie. 

“He’s still getting ready,” Mick shrugs noncommittally. Len had made him fetch whatever it was that Gideon had produced for him the second time around and then kicked him out of their quarters, citing the need for privacy. Which, as far as Mick was concerned, probably meant Len was going to do something highly undignified he wanted no one to witness, possibly involving coconut oil. 

“What’s taking him so long? It’s not like he has… to..” Jax trails off, still holding onto the bowtie as his eyes grow wide at the sight of Snart. 

“LIke I don’t have to what, Jax?” Len purrs behind Mick and from the blush rising on Jax’s cheeks, Mick knows to brace himself when he turns around. 

Because, _hot damn._

Len is leaning against the doorframe, hip cocked for the maximum effect to show off just _how_ long his silk-clad legs are, the fringe of the dress barely brushing the top of his knee. The current fashion suits his lack of curves, an artful ruffle hiding just how broad his shoulders are under the sequined fabric. 

Mick’s mouth goes dry when Len toys with the long string of pearls around his neck, drawing attention to the velvet choker, the blue matching the opera gloves that hide just how muscled his arms are. 

“Cat got your tongue?” Len’s familiar smirk is now painted red, his eyes dramatically lined and his luscious lashes looking even longer than usual. There’s a hint of rouge - ha! - on his cheeks, softening the angles framed by the veritable waterfall of dazzling jewels adorning his headdress. 

Mick adjusts himself discreetly, although there is no way Len does not notice, despite the fact that he’s distracted by Stein’s appearance and subsequent commentary - 

“I say, Mr. Snart, I believe my grandmother had that very same dress.” 

*** 

They have a plan. 

_“We knock out Altieri and I take his place; I then make my way into Yale’s office and get the hilts.”_

_“Are you certain that is the aberration?”_

_“Has to be.”_

_“I am more curious why a 1920s hit man looks like he could be your twin brother.”_

_“Shut up, Snart.”_

_“Don’t sleep with your grandfather, Sara.”_

(Len has to fix his makeup again, but it’s so worth it)

They execute the plan 

It’s easy enough to find the speakeasy, even if they didn’t have Gideon and her future wikipedia. This is no Cotton Club, but the entrance is still clearly marked and on a well-lit (For 1920s New York anyway) street. 

There’s even one of those little sliders on the door, with a goon in a suit eyeballing them through for what’s mostly for show before letting them in. Len thinks he really wants one of those for the Rogues’ new hideout once they’re back in central, but he pushes the thoughts of Bivolo in a zoot suit away because, priorities. 

Len drapes himself artfully on Mick’s arm as they enter the club, all eyes on them. He _does_ make a striking woman on occasion even if he says so himself. That, and he’s wearing a small-to-medium fortune in diamonds.

The air is thick with tobacco smoke but the fortune draped over Len glints in the low lights, even more so than the singer in the slinky dress with the burnt molasses voice crooning about sister Kate. 

Spotting their mark is easy enough. If this was a movie, Len would be throwing popcorn at the screen because really? Just how cliche can you get, with the pinstripe and the henchmen and the honest to goodness _violin_ case resting against an empty chair. 

“Oh, _Darling_ ,” Len purrs as he leans into Mick to hide his amusement. “Will you please get me some giggle water?” 

Mick gives him a _look._ “Of course, doll.” 

Len and Mick draw Frankie Yale into a conversation, or rather, Mick does, with Len sipping his surprisingly palatable cocktail from a crystal flute while he flutters his eyelashes and acts like Mick is the bee’s knees. (Which, he is. But so is the drink, laced with honey and lemon… _and something else._ Interesting)

**

“It didn’t occur to you they _really_ don’t like the Irish around here?” Mick snarls as he ducks behind the dumpster. 

Stein shakes his head, “I do apologize Mr. Rory - “

“Shut it,” Mick grunts as his eyes flick up and catch a reflection on the opposite window; the coast is clear for him to reach out past the dumpster and shoot one of the goons trying to corner them. Stein showing up and calling him by his last name was what clued Yale in that something was fishy. 

Good thing Len’s rings doubled as knuckle dusters, but Mick is about ninety per cent sure that those silk stockings with the little seams down the back got torn in the ensuing scuffle, which as far as he was concerned was a _real_ crime. He’d looked forward to having them wrapped around his waist later on, dammit, and Gideon replicating another pair wouldn’t be the same. 

“Where is Miss Lance?” 

“ _A little busy_ ,” Sara’s voice comes through the comms, barely getting through the interference. “ _Trying to_ \- “ clattering metal, a grunt, “ _Not to negate my existence_.”

“ _Don’t become your own grandmother_ ,” Len sounds almost cheerful through the static. 

“ _Can you please for the love of God stop talking about people’s grandmothers?_ ” Jax’s voice is full of exasperation. “ _We’re almost there!_ ” 

Mick grunts in affirmative and takes out another gangster. Soon enough Jax and Len burst through the backstage doors. Len is missing his headdress but holding a gun; sadly not a tommy gun but beggars can’t be choosers. 

“Thanks for helping a brother out,” Len calls to the singer who winks at him before she slams the door shut after them and drags the deadbolt in place. 

“Got it?”

“Got it,” Len replies as he picks off another one of the gangsters. 

“No more hot tub time machine gin for these guys,” Jax confirms. 

“Really? That’s the reference you go with?” 

“Hey not all of us have a vested interest in gangsters, dude.” 

“It’s called professional development, kiddo.”

Mick is about to tell them to shut up and for Jax to merge with the professor already when one of the goons slumps down as if his strings had been cut. “What the fuck?” 

Len peers past the dumpster. “We should be able to get past them now.” 

“You fucking roofied them, didn’t you?” Mick shouldn’t be surprised. 

.“Some guys just can’t handle their arsenic.” Len smirks, lips still perfectly red. 

Mick rolls his eyes but they make it out of the alley, joining up with Sara and Ray across town. 

Two-Knife lays on the floor unconscious, the plaque carrying the broken-off hilts of a set of knives broken into two next to him. He’s still breathing, barely, which is good because he still has people to kill before he disappears off into obscurity (and meets Sara’s actual grandmother.)

The other guy on the floor hasn’t fared that well. 

“Did you really have to stab him so many times, Captain Lance?” Firestorm asks, looking a little queasy. 

Sara shrugs, unconcerned. Her suit is ripped along the side, but the blood is most likely not hers. “He ran into my knife.”

“Three times?” 

Sara grins. “He ran into my knife _ten_ times.” 

***

 

“What the _hell_ happened out there?” Rip’s voice is full of barely controlled fury when they make their way back to the Waverider. “You - _why_?” 

“He had it coming,” Len said with a smirk. 

Rip blanched. “Oh no you don’t.” 

“He only had himself to blame,” Sara added, trying and failing to keep the amusement from her voice. 

“We weren’t even _in_ Chicago!” Rip shouts. 

“If you’d been there - if you had seen it?” Len pays him no heed. 

_“I bet you would have done the same.”_

**Author's Note:**

> The song these reprobates are quoting is, of course, Cell Block Tango from the musical Chicago, as is the title from the song All that Jazz.


End file.
